Last night I was looking for a notebook I had while I was in New York. I remembered I had copied down a monologue in it that I wanted to take a look at. What began as a simple Hey, where did I put that notebook routine turned into Wow, I just found another notebook I had totally forgotten about journey.
I don’t think I ever realized how many words I’d put to paper in the last couple of years. Notebooks, journals, notepads, pocket memo books, you name it and it was filled with stand-up comedy ideas (some of them still made me laugh and others made me glad I had buried them in a notebook I’d forgotten about), short stories (including the original hand-written version of my short story, “Java”), and various quotes that struck me as humorous.
Still, I was struck by how much there was. Pages were literally filled with my familiar all-caps handwriting, all written with my trademark black-inked Pilot G-2 pen. Page after page after page after page. It seemed to just pour out of me, usually pretty easily.
It’s been a while since I’ve written and the all-too-many empty pages at the back of each notebook only emphasizes the point.